


heaven in a wildflower

by sarahyyy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac can see hints of ink peeking out from the man’s shirt collar, and that isn’t helpful at all. The <i>fuck fuck fuck</i> looping in his head intensifies.</p><p>“Flowers!” he exclaims, acutely aware of how manic he sounds, and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He’s never been this bad at social interaction, not even with people he finds attractive. He’s an amazing flirt, a <i>natural</i> flirt, this doesn’t happen to him. “I need flowers,” he says, calmer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heaven in a wildflower

**Author's Note:**

> Title from William Blake's "Auguries of Innocence".

There is no other word for it: Enjolras is moping.

“I am not,” Enjolras grumbles, when Courfeyrac comes to the conclusion gleefully over breakfast. “I am how I always am.”

Courfeyrac snorts. “You’ve been scowling at your phone since you came home from your date last night,” he points out, and then steals Enjolras’ hash browns. They’re really good hash browns and don’t deserve to be butchered and mutilated by Enjolras’ increasingly violent fork-skills. “Are you expecting a call?”

“No,” Enjolras says, but his scowl deepens, and he’s glaring at his phone again. 

Courfeyrac is disappointed; he taught Enjolras how to lie better.

“Did things not go well with Grantaire last night?” Courfeyrac asks, because Enjolras would never volunteer the information, even if he does want to talk about it. It’s up to Courfeyrac to pry it out from him. “He normally comes home with you after date night.”

Enjolras stops glaring at his phone to glare at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac meets his gaze steadily, and counts down from ten mentally. He makes it to four when Enjolras sighs.

“We fought,” Enjolras tells Courfeyrac. “I may have yelled some awful things, and he may have yelled them back, and we may be sort of broken up.” His voice gets progressively quieter towards the end of his sentence, and Courfeyrac can tell that he’s more upset about the whole thing than he appears to be. “I apologised,” Enjolras says, and he sounds petulant. “He’s not replying.”

“Right,” Courfeyrac says, and takes a sip of his tea. “How did you apologise?” he asks, because he knows Enjolras, and he knows how Enjolras’ apologies are often less apologetic and more confrontational. 

“I said I was sorry!” Enjolras insists, but he’s fidgeting, and his grip tightens on his phone, and nope, Courfeyrac really did teach him how to lie better than this. Shame on Enjolras.

“Show me,” Courfeyrac says, holding his hand out for Enjolras’ phone.

“Don’t you have better things to do than to police my apologies?” Enjolras grumbles, but dutifully hands over his phone without any fuss, which tells Courfeyrac all he needs to know about how much Enjolras really wants his insight on how to deal with this problem. 

Enjolras’ lock-screen photo is a photo of Grantaire. Courfeyrac suppresses his happy sigh at that. He taps on Enjolras’ messages to Grantaire and zooms in on the latest one, sent 12 hours ago, about the time Enjolras got home from his date, huh. 

**To: Grantaire**  
I’m sorry, what I said was out of the line. But if you don’t want us to fight all the time, maybe try not antagonising me all the time.

Courfeyrac sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is an awful apology,” he tells Enjolras. And _how_. Enjolras is the most eloquent person he knows.

“I said I was sorry,” Enjolras protests, but there’s not much heat behind his words. 

“You said you were sorry, and then followed up by basically telling Grantaire that he’s the reason why you both fight all the time,” Courfeyrac says. He wishes he’d gotten coffee instead of tea now.

“Well—”

“Don’t,” Courfeyrac warns him. “I will throw my teacup at you.” 

Enjolras sighs. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he tells Courfeyrac. “I was still a little angry when I wrote that text. I don’t think he antagonises me all the time. I like it when he picks my arguments apart. I was just _edgy_ last night. The waiter was hitting on Grantaire, and— I didn’t like it.”

“That’s the kind of thing you include in a sincere apology,” Courfeyrac says. “You already know what you want to say, stop trying to overthink the words and just _say them_.”

“He was really angry last night,” Enjolras says, teeth worrying at his lip. “He said that dating me was the worst decision he ever made. What if he’s right? What if I’m bad for him?” He rubs a hand over his face, clearly frustrated. He must have been thinking about this all night. “What if the best thing for him is for us to stay broken up?”

Courfeyrac stares at him. “You’re doing that thing with your face, stop it.”

“What thing?” Enjolras asks, brows furrowed.

“The thing that says that you’ve just made a decision, and it’s an awful one, but you’re going to bite the bullet and do the stupid thing anyway,” Courfeyrac tells him. “You love Grantaire,” he says softly, and it’s meant to be a reminder, so Enjolras stops giving himself ideas, but from the look on Enjolras’ face, it’s not doing the trick. 

“That’s why I have to stay away,” Enjolras tells Courfeyrac, determined. “It’s better for Grantaire that way.”

—

It isn’t like he’s actively looking for a way to intervene, but sad and mopey Enjolras is not fun to be around, and it’s driving Courfeyrac nuts sometimes to see Enjolras staring at his phone mournfully where normally he would have been grinning at a stupid selfie Grantaire sent him, so when the newly opened flower shop at the corner of their building catches Courfeyrac’s eye on Tuesday morning, he squares himself, decides that he would not see his best friend be sad anymore, and goes into the shop.

The flower shop is small but well-stocked, and it looks to Courfeyrac that the arrangement of the flowers are colour-coded, the various pink and red flowers dominating the length of one wall. It’s a rather quaint way of arrangement, he’s rather certain that most florist arrange the flowers by type, not colour, but the overall effect looks great, and he is smiling to himself thinking about how Jehan would love this place. 

Courfeyrac is still smiling when someone calls out, “Can I help you?”

He quickly turns over to the counter and then just… _freezes_. The man behind the counter is tall, with broad shoulders that stretch the navy blue cardigan he’s wearing. He’s smiling at Courfeyrac, and his black-rimmed glasses are slightly askew, and Courfeyrac can’t look away. 

“Umm, hi,” he blurts out, which isn’t the worst thing he could have said, given the combination of _I want to feel his stubble on my skin_ and _fuck fuck fuck_ running through his head right now. 

The man’s smile grows wider. “Hi.”

Courfeyrac can see hints of ink peeking out from the man’s shirt collar, and that isn’t helpful at all. The _fuck fuck fuck_ in his head intensifies.

“Flowers!” he exclaims, acutely aware of how manic he sounds, and wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He’s never been this bad at social interaction, not even with people he finds attractive. He’s an amazing flirt, a _natural_ flirt, this doesn’t happen to him. “I need flowers,” he says, calmer. 

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” the man says, laughing softly, and shit, he has a very nice laugh, Courfeyrac wants to hear it all the time. “Did you have anything in mind?”

No, he did not, and even if he did have specific flowers in mind before he met the hot florist, he’s pretty sure that they would have all vanished. 

“Something pretty that says _I’m sorry I was an asshole, please take me back_?” Courfeyrac asks, giving the man a hopeful smile. 

“Oh,” the man says, and he sounds disappointed. Maybe he was expecting more of a challenge? Loads of people must come in and ask for arrangements like this. “I could—” He clears his throat, and fuck, even that is sexy. “I have some hyacinths in the back room, they will go very nicely with some white roses. Did you want a card with the flowers?” 

—

“I am so fucked,” Courfeyrac groans when he tells Jehan about the hot florist with the perfect laugh and perfect face and perfect ass.

Jehan laughs for a full five minutes.

—

Enjolras comes home that night scowling. 

“Oh no,” Courfeyrac says preemptively, because that’s Enjolras’ _Grantaire did a thing_ face, and Courfeyrac is not ready for this.

“Someone gave Grantaire flowers,” Enjolras grits out, throwing his suit jacket carelessly over the couch before he starts pacing. “I walked by coffee shop today, just as Grantaire was getting the delivery. We broke up on Sunday night, and he’s accepting flowers from other people today,” Enjolras says, and he sounds _hurt_ , and Courfeyrac immediately feels guilty, because this wasn’t what he’d planned to do. 

He nixed the idea of getting a card along with the flowers because he assumed that Grantaire would guess that they’re from Enjolras, and because getting a card means having to decipher something suitably Enjolras to write in the card, and that was more trouble than getting flowers in itself. 

He opens his mouth to explain, but Enjolras cuts him off by continuing his rant. 

“I mean, he’s allowed to date other people now,” Enjolras tries to reason, “but I just thought— Fuck, never mind, that was a selfish thing to think. Grantaire should be happy, and if it means that he has to be with someone who isn’t me, he should.” He exhales, and flops onto the couch. “I never got him flowers,” he admits quietly to Courfeyrac. “Maybe I should have gotten him flowers. He seemed happy when he got them.”

“Maybe you could get him some now?” Courfeyrac suggest hopefully. “Get him some flowers and tell him you’re sorry and have ridiculously loud make-up sex? I’ll even steer clear of the apartment, and not complain that I have to do it.”

Enjolras smiles slightly at that, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and he still sounds sad when he says, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Enjolras has taken on that tone of his again, the one that says that he’s determined to make a bad situation work, and it’s obvious that he isn’t going to do anything to fix this Grantaire thing, so the only chance of them getting back together is if Grantaire sees fit to forgive Enjolras for being an idiot. 

Right, Courfeyrac will just have to work harder on his Grantaire angle, then. He can do this. He’s got help in the form of a really hot florist.

He can do this.

—

He can’t do this, he can’t look at the hot florist and make decent enough conversation for the florist to think that he’s not only capable of blinking stupidly at him. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Courfeyrac asks, when it becomes clear that the florist is waiting for an answer. 

The man smiles. “I said ‘back so soon?’.” 

“The problem hasn’t been solved,” Courfeyrac says, and shrugs. 

“So another _I’m sorry I was an asshole_ bouquet?” the man asks, lips stretching into an easy smile. 

“You remembered!” Courfeyrac says, stupidly pleased at the idea that the hot florist would remember anything about him at all.

The florist laughs. “You were here only yesterday, of course I remember.”

Courfeyrac flushes. “Right,” he says. “Sorry.”

“I’m Combeferre,” the florist — _Combeferre_ — says. “If you’re going to be a regular, you should at least know my name.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way round?” Courfeyrac says, cocking his head to one side in question. “For, y’know, customer service reasons.”

“Customer service reasons,” Combeferre echoes, eyes shining with amusement. “Well, then, by that logic, shouldn’t you be telling me your name?”

“Courfeyrac,” Courfeyrac says, and offers Combeferre his hand. Combeferre reaches out to shakes Courfeyrac’s hand, grip tight and firm, and the action reveals the tail end of a tattooed line of script ending at Combeferre’s right wrist. Courfeyrac swallows hard. 

“Well, then, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, “I’m pretty sure recycling the same bouquet of flowers is boring, why don’t you tell me what colours you’d like for today’s bouquet?”

Courfeyrac makes a face. “Do I have to choose?” he asks.

Combeferre laughs. “What’s their favourite colour?” 

“His,” Courfeyrac offers, and Combeferre’s eyes dart to his for a second, before he looks away, blushing. “I’m pretty sure he likes green.”

Combeferre smiles at that. “That’s helpful,” he says. “I could arrange something very leafy, with maybe a few white flowers in it? What are your thoughts on peonies?” 

—

Courfeyrac buys a book on flowers and botany from the bookstore on his way back from work. He figures that if he’s going to impress Combeferre, he needs to put a bit of work into it. 

He spends the whole night skimming through the book, pulling up articles from Google and Wikipedia to help. At one point, he even texts Jehan to ask for his opinion on lilies, and Jehan had written him a lovely poem about them, and tells Courfeyrac that he is free to use the poem to woo his hot florist if he wants to.

(He wants to.)

By the end of the night, he has considerable knowledge of flowers, and his stomach does anticipatory flips just thinking about talking to Combeferre tomorrow, but when he walks out of his room, he finds Enjolras huddled under his duvet, sitting on the couch and staring into space. There’s an empty tub of ice cream sitting on the coffee table in front of him, and John Legend’s _All Of Me_ is playing softly on Enjolras’ phone. 

“Not a word,” Enjolras says, as Courfeyrac sits down next to him, wrapping an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder as best as he can with the duvet on Enjolras. 

—

“So Enjolras has been sending me flowers,” Grantaire tells Courfeyrac when Courfeyrac pops into the coffee shop during Grantaire’s break. 

Courfeyrac feigns surprise. “Has he?”

Grantaire nods. “I got the three bouquets in just as many days. The delivery guy and I are becoming close friends. He keeps trying to guess what my boyfriend did to me to warrant so many apology bouquets. He’s a nice chap, Bahorel.”

“Okay?” Courfeyrac takes a sip of his coffee and immediately regrets it. It’s still ridiculously hot. “Enjolras told me about the ridiculous breakup, and his stupid text apology. This is probably him apologising for being an idiot. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Grantaire starts, fingers gripping the arm of his chair tightly, “is that I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Forgive him?” Courfeyrac suggests, hopeful. “He’s been moping around the apartment a lot. Yesterday he put _Someone Like You_ on loop and sat staring at the wall. He’s really sorry.”

“He hasn’t called me yet,” Grantaire says, the corners of his lips are pinched down. He looks just as sad as Enjolras has been looking, and Courfeyrac wants to cuff them both on the head and tell them to stop being idiots, but nope, he must have patience. “I keep waiting for him to call me, but he isn’t calling.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to call him first,” Courfeyrac says gently. “He’s made his move with the flowers, after all.”

Grantaire sighs. “It’s just— Never mind.”

“It’s just?” Courfeyrac prompts, nudging Grantaire’s knee. 

“They’re apology bouquets,” Grantaire sighs. “What if he’s just apologising for how the breakup went, but not that we broke up?” He swallows, and looks away from Courfeyrac to stare at his sneakers. “I’m not— He deserves to have someone a lot better than me, someone who doesn’t goad him into fights, who believes in the same things he believes. I’m not good enough—”

Courfeyrac covers Grantaire’s mouth with his palm. “Don’t finish that sentence,” Courfeyrac warns. “I will dump my coffee over your head.”

Grantaire smartly keeps his mouth shut when Courfeyrac takes his hand off Grantaire, but his eyes still look sad, and it’s clear what Courfeyrac has to do to help make his friends happy again.

—

“We need to switch it up a little bit,” Courfeyrac tells Combeferre as he walks into the flower shop. He’s too on edge to feel nervous about talking to Combeferre today, because Enjolras had been playing sad Adele songs again last night, and Courfeyrac cannot with all the sad vibes he’s getting from Enjolras anymore. “I need today’s bouquet to say _I love you so, so, so, so much that I would die for you_ , can you manage that?”

Combeferre peers at him over the rim of his glasses, and oh hello, butterflies in his stomach.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” Combeferre tells him, before pushing the sleeves of his shirt up over his elbows. Courfeyrac notes the tattoos of moths and what appears to be their scientific names on Combeferre’s arm and, Christ God, he has fallen for a complete nerd, this is the _best_. Combeferre walks around the counter to pick up a few stems of red roses from the bucket near the doorway, stopping to pick up some baby’s breath ( _gypsophila_ , Courfeyrac knows this!) before he pauses in front of Courfeyrac, frowning slightly. “Lavender, yes or no?”

“Promise of new adventure,” Courfeyrac says, beaming because that book on flowers and their meaning is such a great investment. “Yes, definitely.” 

Combeferre looks pleasantly surprised. “You’ve been reading up,” he notes, and the warm smile he’s giving Courfeyrac makes him tingle all over.

“Figured I’d try to be more helpful,” Courfeyrac says, aware that his cheeks feel warm, and that he probably looks red. He perches on the counter and stares down at his shoes to try to hide that. “Can’t have you do all the work.”

“You know that’s exactly what I’m here for, right?” Combeferre teases, putting the flowers down on his work bench, and sets about working to assemble the flowers. “So, four bouquets in four days,” Combeferre says. “Bahorel, the delivery guy, is getting really curious.”

Courfeyrac sighs, thinking back about Enjolras, and his ridiculous scowl when Courfeyrac tried to turn his music down. “It’s nothing interesting,” he tells Combeferre. “Classical case of guy says something dumb, other guy says something dumb too, they break up, and nothing is right with the world.”

“Sounds serious,” Combeferre comments. “Have the flowers been working?”

“They have, actually,” Courfeyrac says, brightening up, because Grantaire is almost ready to call Enjolras. “With any luck, this bouquet will be the final push Grantaire needs, and then you won’t have to see me ever again.” The idea of not having a reason to come in to see Combeferre every day makes his stomach twist. “Unless you want to,” Courfeyrac adds quickly. “Which, uh, not that you have to, but I’d love to take you out for dinner sometime—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Combeferre says quietly, and when Courfeyrac looks up at him, Combeferre is staring at the flowers on his work bench, cheeks tinged pink, resolutely not looking at Courfeyrac.

And oh, Combeferre isn’t interested, of course he isn’t interested. Courfeyrac is just his stupidly annoying customer, and now he’s crossed a line and made things awkward between them. Why couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut?

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac says. “I’ll just— I’ll just go. Sorry.”

—

“I know what you did, Courf,” Grantaire says the moment Courfeyrac picks up his phone. “You were the one sending the flowers.”

Courfeyrac curses under his breath, because wow, nothing is going his way at all today. Is this karma for being a meddlesome friend? 

“He just looked so sad!” Courfeyrac whines at Grantaire. “And he was so sure that it would be better for you if he stayed away from you because of the thing you said about him being the worst decision of your life? He wasn’t going to do anything, even if he really wanted to, so I thought if I could just nudge you in the direction, make you take the first step, maybe…” He trails off, and sighs. “Look, don’t think that Enjolras hasn’t done anything to fix this because he doesn’t want to. He wants to, I promise he wants to so much, he’s just being really stupid now. I’m sorry I made an even bigger mess out of things.”

“You didn’t,” Grantaire tells him, and he sounds— He doesn’t sound angry, he sounds like he’s smiling, and for the first time since he stepped out of Combeferre’s flower shop, Courfeyrac’s day is starting to feel less shitty. “Enjolras came by today, with flowers, just as Bahorel was dropping your bouquet off. Enjolras was jealous, apparently. We got back together, we’re fine now, but that’s not why I called.”

Courfeyrac blinks. “What?”

“Bahorel tried to punch Enjolras,” Grantaire tells him. “He was telling me that Enjolras was just trying to ask the florist out this morning, and that he should be ashamed of being the double-timing asshole he is, and that’s when we worked out that Enjolras wasn’t the one sending the flowers.”

Courfeyrac is silent for a moment, running Grantaire’s words over in his head. 

“Courf,” Grantaire says, voice soft and gentle, “the florist thought you already had a boyfriend, that’s why he said no.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac breathes out. “Fuck, R, I need to—”

Grantaire laughs. “Go,” Grantaire tells him. “And oh, don’t expect Enjolras home tonight.”

—

Courfeyrac figures that he should have planned things out properly just as he runs into the flower shop. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say to Combeferre, or even if he can even muster the courage to ask Combeferre out again (in a hopefully less awkward way filled with much, much less rejection).

“I was wondering if you would show up,” Combeferre says from behind the counter. He sets his book down and stands up slowly. He is smiling softly, and there is a pinkness to his cheek that is completely riveting, and Courfeyrac cannot stop the giddy feeling from rushing to his head when he thinks that he might be the reason Combeferre is blushing. 

“I need flowers!” Courfeyrac blurts out. “I mean, uh. Can I buy a bouquet, please?”

Combeferre looks confused for a moment, but he nods all the same. “What will you have?”

“It needs to be the best damned bouquet you’ve ever arranged,” Courfeyrac tells Combeferre as he slowly walks towards the counter. “I’m trying to ask someone out. It needs to scream _I’m sorry there was so much miscommunication between us, I really like you and I think you are amazing, you should go out on a date with me and be my boyfriend_. Do you think you can manage that?” 

Combeferre shrugs, even as his smile grows and he reaches out to take Courfeyrac’s hand in his. “That sounds like a tough message to convey through flowers. It’ll cost you.”

“I’ll pay you in dates,” Courfeyrac tells him, squeezing his hand tightly. He’s pretty sure that the grin on his face must be ridiculous, borderline manic, probably, but Combeferre doesn’t run screaming in the other direction, and fuck, this is the best day ever. “Brilliant dates. Many dates. So, so, _so many_ dates.”

“Cash payments only,” Combeferre says with a laugh, before he tugs Courfeyrac in by his scarf for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [here](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come say hi! :D


End file.
